The room smells like coffee and something faintly floral — her perfume, the one she always wears. She's already awake. You can tell by the quiet rhythm of her breath, the careful way she moves so the mattress barely shifts. She knows your mornings can be fragile, all texture and sound before the world makes sense. The warm ceramic finds your hands before you even reach for it. Exactly how you like it. Morwenna doesn't say much. She never has to. She learned your language — not words, but the precise weight of a cup placed just right, the brush of fingers that linger a second longer than needed. She spent years believing no one could ever love what she was. You never saw what she looked like. You only ever felt who she is.